Within a year of birth we learn to walk, much to the delight of
our parents. But then we disregard our new ability. Speaking for
myself, I only recall never wanting to walk anywhere. For movement
I wanted wheels, a real bike, not a tricycle good only for going
around in circles and tipping over. And no training wheels either,
which were like a ball and chain and sissy besides. The best
thing about going to school was going to it and back on my bicycle.
It was as faithful a companion as my later dog. Leaving it behind
for summer camp five years in a row was traumatic, particularly
because of Wednesdays, set aside each session for all-day hikes.
What a drag-out nightmare in the hot San Bernardino mountain sun.
From one of those endless treks I returned feverish with measles.
That put an end to my career in forced marches. Soon enough I
turned 16 and traded bicycle for car. Now I wouldn’t have to walk
for even greater distances.
Sports, a.k.a. exercise, at the time comprised running and
jumping and darting about, and not much baseball, actually, perhaps
because of all the “walks” it involved where hardly anyone knew how
to throw a strike or to hit one. Calling them “free passes” hardly
erased the stigma.
Next thing I knew I was married and suburban, commuting to
downtown offices, with lots of driving back and forth and
everywhere else. It seemed walking came into play only on those few
occasions I traveled to New York City, where walking is a necessity
and a one-of-a-kind pleasure. But who can walk in beautiful
downtown Indianapolis, say, after they’ve seen Manhattan?
The decades flew by. Then came the day my doctor suggested I
lose some weight, improve my diet, and exercise regularly. Luckily
his diagnosis coincided with a visit I made to my boyhood
California hometown. Before I knew it I was walking along the
streets I used to bicycle, checking up on some of my old
neighborhood’s key properties—its mom-and-pop purveyors of penny
candy are long gone, alas—and then expanding my horizons. It’s
amazing how far one can walk if one devotes an hour or two to the
deed. And to keep things interesting one can keep coming up with
new paths.
After 10 days of this I returned to Northern Virginia. I
rediscovered my neighborhood, walking along streets I hadn’t seen
since our boys were in a pram. A similar broadening occurred, and
suddenly I was going places I’d never been, not to mention seeing
for myself what a rich collection of jogging-biking- walking paths
my county has to offer its nonsedentary residents.
Better still has been my experience in Arlington, our magazine’s
home since 1985—at three different locations no more than 30
minutes away, as I’ve now figured out. From our current offices in
Rosslyn it’s 12 minutes to the Iwo Jima Memorial, 17 to Arlington
Ceme tery’s north gate, 30 to the Memorial Bridge. Cross it in less
than 10, turn left and follow the embankment along the Potomac past
the Kennedy Center to Georgetown for another half hour, and then
cross the Key Bridge back to our offices in 20 minutes or so.
But nothing beats the Mount Vernon Trail, which once past
Roosevelt Island (13 minutes away) offers lovely views of
Washington from Virginia’s Potomac shore. There’s not a tourist in
sight, though many a jogger and occasionally crazed biker compete
for space along this path, which doesn’t end until you reach George
Washington’s home 18 miles away. Not enough hours in the day to
walk that far, but a mile or two suffice for a long, sustained look
at the Lincoln Memorial, Washington Monument, and Capitol dome
across the majestically wide river. At first the three appear to be
lined up one behind the other—but 20 minutes later they seem to be
standing one next to the other. Throw a few ducks into the picture,
geese, egrets, and even an occasional otter, next to parkland grass
and weeping willows and thick-leaved trees, and what could be
nicer?
Maybe to have another crack at an all-day summer camp hike?
